


Casual Touch

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Tumblr Shorts [19]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9311507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: When you touch me, my mind is gone. The only words I know are lost inside your body.Q is touch-starved and lonely. Bond's return to London is possibly the worst and the best thing to happen to him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Requested as an A Softer World prompt by an anon: "When you touch me, my mind is gone. The only words I know are lost inside your body." The key line in this fic comes from Backwards Compatibility, a marvelous web-series about robots. The line specifically appears [here](http://backwardscompatibility.tumblr.com/post/133419609850/touch). I recommend everyone go read it (and support the author if you can)!!
> 
> With mega-thanks to castillon02, without whom the second part wouldn't exist~!

_ When you touch me, my mind is gone. The only words I know are lost inside your body _ .

Q doesn’t understand romance. It’s not that he doesn’t  _ want _ it. He’d like a partner, someone to spend lazy mornings with, who would put up with his constant tinkering and his odd taste in music and his inability to do the laundry correctly and his fixation for keeping a clean kitchen. He wants someone to go out to eat with, someone who will hold his hand in cabs and kiss him sweetly before he goes to sleep.

It’s just that Q doesn’t pick up on the same cues that everyone else does. He can’t distinguish flirting from small talk. He interprets suggestive figures of speech literally, avoids speaking with strangers when he can, and remains defensive if he’s out in public. He’s considered getting one of those dating apps, but he’s too proud to use someone else’s flawed algorithm.

Years pass. Q is alone. He has his cats, his code, a job, and little else. He’s lonely.

The miraculous, entirely unanticipated return of James Bond, MI6′s 007, changes things.

* * *

 

After they meet in the National Gallery, Q finds himself a bench and sits. He has to because he’s breathing so hard he doesn’t think he can trust his legs to hold him up, and because if he falls someone will try to help. He doesn’t want help, he wants, he wants…

Their hands had brushed–Bond′s and his. Just the briefest of touches as Q handed over the radio he’d crafted. Q stares at his hand, awed. Bond’s hands were warm, strong and calloused. Q doesn’t remember the last time anyone touched him skin-to-skin. He  _ can’t _ remember; his mind is tangled up in itself, all of the words gone. Images flicker through his brain–Bond on the bench, the painting, the look of his hands as he took the radio.

Q wills himself to stillness. He has to think. He has to think.

“Are you okay?”

The question brings Q out of himself far too soon. There’s a woman standing over him, lips and eyebrows pinched.

“Fine, thank you,” Q says. His voice doesn’t shake nearly as much as his knees do. She reaches for him and Q pulls his arm away. She takes the hint.

“Sorry,” she says, backing off. “You just looked so sad.”

_ I am _ , Q thinks. He walks from her without offering a response because he can no longer speak. His tongue twists behind his teeth, ineffectual, useless. His brain runs through the same second on loop. Bond’s hands take over his mind.

He can’t sleep that night for the loneliness.

* * *

 

Bond returns from Shanghai with a prisoner in tow, and Q makes up his mind. Even if Bond’s not the right fit–even if he won’t be the one to hold his hand and rub his back and sit with him quietly in the early hours of the morning, just together, nothing more complicated than that–even if he’s not the one, Q wants.

What he wants, even Q isn’t sure.

He tries to pay attention to see if Bond notices him in the slightest, but Q doesn’t know what to look for. He can’t very well stare at Bond, and short of asking someone else to do it for him, Q can’t know what he’s doing most of the time. Q has to pay attention to his computers, to the data that Bond’s brought back.

That’s okay, Q reasons, he can impress Bond, if nothing else. He values intelligence, or so Q hears. (He hasn’t been listening, really.  _ Really _ .)

He tries, and he succeeds, but then there’s the virus, everything’s shutting down, and Q wants to sink to the floor in agony. Bond’s gone, again, and it’s his fault. He should never have tried.

* * *

 

Miracle of miracles, Bond asks for his help. He needs a trail leading to Scotland, to a specific set of coordinates, something only their escapee can find. Q’s so grateful that he’s not despised, he agrees immediately.

Bond talks to him, ever so briefly. Q can feel his words through the speakers as sure as a caress, and it physically pains him to have the audio gone when Bond ends their contact. Q wonders how long he can do this, how much of a mess he’s made in a few short days.

_ A big one _ , the voice at the back of his mind, the one that lists his mistakes when he tries to sleep, tells him.  _ Look at you, look at what you’re doing, going behind the back of authority for a single man. _

Q hurts. He tugs the sleeves of his cardigan down over his knuckles and waits for news.

* * *

 

The inquiry that follows the destruction of Skyfall is tedious and painful. No, Q didn’t know he was going to free the late Raoul Silva. Yes, he did specifically aid Bond in his quest to divert the imminent accident. No, yes, no, no, yes.

Mallory believes him, which is one of the only reasons he doesn’t find himself out of a job.

Bond vouches for him as well, which doesn’t help his case so much as it helps Q’s ego.

Bond’s waiting for him down in Q Division, too. Q only sees him when he turns the lights on, his best suit jacket crumpled over one arm. It’s half past four in the morning, and the meetings are only done for the next three hours. All he wants to do is curl up on the floor and hope for the best, but Bond has other plans.

“Nothing to drink,” Bond says when the lights go on. He’s sitting in Q’s chair. “Would have thought you’d have something stashed somewhere.”

“I don’t drink at work,” Q says. It’s mostly true–he had a beer with Tanner before everything went to hell–but he doesn’t feel like elaborating. He walks past Bond, making a careful arc around the chair, to come to sit on the sofa. “I need sleep.”

“Here?”

“Have to be back in a few hours.”

Q curls up on the couch. His eyelids are drooping shut, and he feels sick. He doesn’t know when he ate last. He’s so  _ tired _ .

“Q.”

Bond’s hand comes to rest heavy on his shoulder. Q flinches, drawing back.

“I”m sorry,” Bond says. “I didn’t mean–”

“It’s fine,” Q lies. It’s not fine. He remembers a line from a story he’d read on the internet, of all things:  _ there is no such thing as casual touch _ . “It just startled me.”

“You can’t sleep here.”

“I have to, meeting’s in less than three hours.”

Bond sighs. “Where’s your flat?”

“What?”

“Your flat.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to take you home.”

“I already told you–”

“Hush,” Bond orders. Q doesn’t have it in him to argue.

* * *

 

Bond takes him home. It’s a surreal experience, one Q never dreamed of having, but here it is. It’s quarter past five in the morning, and Bond is driving him home. Q might appreciate it more if he could stop nodding off in the passenger seat.

“Almost there,” Bond says once. Q knows, but he appreciates Bond saying it anyway.

* * *

 

Bond helps Q into his flat and through to his bedroom. The cats are both awake, but Q doesn’t have the energy to give them the attention they deserve. He collapses headfirst onto the bed with a groan. Distantly, he’s aware that Bond’s followed him inside. Q rolls to face him.

Even through his exhaustion, he’s embarrassed at the state of the flat. He normally stashes the litter box when company’s coming, and though his kitchen is clean, everything else is in shambles. His  _ life  _ is in shambles.

Bond doesn’t comment on the mess. He dashes off something on his mobile and says, “Sleep, Q.”

“Don’t deserve it,” Q says. He isn’t sure why; it’s not something he would say under normal circumstances, no matter how much he believes it.

“Yes, you do,” Bond insists. “Off with that suit and under the covers.”

By the time Q’s halfway undressed, he’s realized two things. First, Bond’s turned away to give him some degree of modesty. Second, Bond’s not leaving.

“What are you going to do?” Q asks, tugging his shirt off. It lands in a heap on the floor together with trousers that were carefully pressed only this morning. Q doesn’t care one whit about them now. Bond stares at him, and Q quickly adds, “You don’t have a flat anymore.”

“No,” Bond says. “I was going to get a hotel room.”

All in a rush: “You could stay here.”

Bond’s lack of immediate response has Q wishing he’d never opened his mouth at all. He should just thank Bond and go to sleep and let him do whatever he wants, not question him or offer him things he has to then politely decline.

“Sorry,” Q says. “I’m just–”

“Q,” Bond interrupts, “it’s fine. Don’t apologise.” Q looks down at his own knees. It’s cold in his flat, but he feels too awkward to climb under the covers now. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll lock up and take the couch.”

Q can’t bear to look Bond in the face. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“Your flat, your bed.”

“My flat, my guest.”

Bond has the audacity to huff. “Fine. Your flat, your bed, my choice as  _ your _ guest,” he says. “Stay there.”

He disappears into the front room, and Q thinks it’s the end of it. He takes off his glasses, setting them on the side table. He’ll hate himself in the morning–or whenever he wakes–for not cleaning his teeth, but that’s a future-him problem. Right now, Q’s arms and legs feel like pudding and he can’t bear to move any more.

The lights out, Bond returns to the bedroom. He undresses with more care than Q did, folding his belongings neatly and setting them to one side. Stripped to his underclothes, he goes to Q’s bedside. Q halfway thinks he’s going to crawl into bed with him, but Bond merely leans over to stroke Q’s hair.

“Sleep, Quartermaster,” Bond says. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

“Bond?” Q asks, sleepy. He has to know, he has to, but he’s so tired. The feel of Bond’s hand against his skull has all thought abandoning him. He’s aware of the sheets against his skin and the hand on his cheek and nothing, nothing else.

“Ask me in the morning,” Bond says. The hand is gone, and so is Bond.

Q sleeps, alone but not.

_ There is no such thing as casual touch _ .


	2. Chapter 2

Q likes to think that it gets easier as the months go by. It’s a pretty thought, that today’s pains will fade into tomorrow’s aches and the day after’s mere memories.

Pretty, but false.

Bond was still there in the morning, albeit briefly. He asked if Q needed anything, Q remembers. He hadn’t been awake enough to form much of a response. Then Bond had been gone, off into the vast beast of London, and Q had been alone.

He should have been grateful for what he’d been given. He should have thanked Bond for what he’d done, eyes shining and pleased. It should have been  _ enough _ .

It wasn’t. He’d been left with an empty flat, two hungry cats, and the memory of what he’d had for the briefest of moments. He was given a taste, and his hunger is all the worse for it.

* * *

Q starts going out.

He hates every lonely second of it, from the moment the bartender, waiter, bouncer, whoever lays eyes on him, through until he returns home. He tries, though, and he figures that’s what should count. This is what Bond does, isn’t it? He goes out and he picks someone and he talks to them.

Q picks, but he can’t bring himself to speak.

He only goes to one nightclub, an experience which leaves him breathing heavily in the bathroom, trying not to have a panic attack.  _ I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this… _

The rest of the time, he works. He stays longer, fiddles with designs just to see what he can do with them, and handles more missions than he should. He doesn’t want to go home, so he brings his cats to his office and sets up shop across the Thames where he can have more space to himself and be alone in peace. When it becomes clear that big structural changes are coming to MI6 in the form of Max Denbigh, Q knows he’s made the right decision. Somehow, it doesn’t feel as good as he’d thought. He’s alone, now by choice. Alone here is the same as alone there.

Mallory—M—notices. Moneypenny and Tanner notice. The rest of Q Division notices.

No one says anything.

Maybe it’s better that way.

* * *

It’s clear from the footage that M comes to him to wipe from the internet that Bond has found himself an arms dealer. The rifle he used in Mexico City isn’t one of Q’s. It’s a fine piece, Q allows, but it isn’t  _ his _ .

“Find him,” M orders.

Q wants to. He doesn’t want to. He wants to. He doesn’t. Does. Not.

He lays his head down on his desk after M leaves and closes his eyes for a few minutes. Aubergine hops up on his desk and paws at his face.

“I know,” Q murmurs. Anna whines from the floor before hopping up on his desk chair, rubbing her face into his side. “I know.”

* * *

Q doesn’t need to find Bond, not really. Bond comes back of his own accord, arm in arm with Tanner and the bald-faced lie that he wasn’t involved in the Mexico City blowup.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Bond says, looking around. Tanner follows him, and Q understands that Bond’s meant to be watched at all times after what he’s pulled. He’s only here now to get a tracking device he can’t dig out. “Do I get the grand tour?”

Q doesn’t have it in him to say no, not when Bond looks at him like he understands everything.

“It is good to see you again,” Bond murmurs. He doesn’t touch Q, but it’s a near thing. Q shivers with the anticipation of sensation. He wonders if Bond knows that a touch would have Q agreeing to anything—everything. Bond doesn’t touch. “How have you been?” Bond asks.

“Fine,” Q manages to answer. It’s hard when his mouth is dry and he can’t make eye contact, but he manages.

“What’s this?” Bond asks, louder so that Tanner can hear. The change in tone startles Q and has him standing up a little bit straighter.

“Oh, that,” Q says. He imagines Bond, his false smiles and his bad jokes. It’s not the Bond that’s next to him, but the proximity makes it easier.  _ Fake it _ , Q thinks. Beside him, Bond waits, and Q explains. He shows him everything, including the DB5— _ this is what you could have _ . It’s not bribery, and Q doesn’t actually know what he’ll do if Bond actually takes his hand and asks for it. Bond doesn’t, though. He merely admires the vehicle, hands carefully in his pockets. He leaves Q a healthy berth—not so wide as to appear to avoid him, but not close enough for an accidental brush of their sleeves. Bond is careful, so very careful.

Bond leaves Q’s labs with a tracking device (the real reason for the visit), an explosive watch (that Bond doesn’t know about, yet), and a promise that Q will help him disappear.

Bond hadn’t touched him while he asked. Q’s sure by the end of the visit that Bond knows about Q’s weakness—for what else is he to think of it? Yet Bond had asked, politely, earnestly,  _ openly _ . Q has the sense that, had he said no, Bond wouldn’t have pushed the matter. He wouldn’t have attempted bribery, certainly wouldn’t have touched Q without his express permission.

The thought had Q,  _ has _ Q, saying  _ yes, yes, yes _ .

“I know,” Q says to Aubergine when both Bond and Tanner are gone. “It’s shameful.” Shameful how he caves, how Bond only needs to ask and Q will always, always help. He’d have supplied him in Mexico City if only he’d asked. He’d have gone with Bond, if only he’d asked.

If only.

“Stupid,” Q says. Aubergine peeps at him. “Yes, I agree.”

* * *

There’s an iced bottle of champagne waiting for Q in his labs the next morning. The DB5 is gone. A note attached to the champagne leaves:  _ for when you’re at work and need a drink. Even M keeps his supply, you know _ .

Q nearly misses the reverse side:  _ Take care. Yours, J. _

* * *

Q receives a text at 1:35 in the morning, London time, from an unknown number.

_ Find me. _

The timing couldn’t be better, or worse. The double-0 section is about to go under courtesy of Denbigh’s 9 Eyes plan, and the entirety of MI6 is feeling the heat of a crisis-mode merger. Q stays awake, planning for the inevitable, and when working hours come ‘round, he heads up to the administrator levels.

Through the lift ride, Q can’t stop fiddling with his sleeves. He’s taken to wearing suits on the regular, mostly because M has been relying on him in meetings more and more as the threat of 9 Eyes grows ever more real. He needs to look official, so he’s tried. The added layer of the jacket makes him feel protected and enclosed, both of which are nice, but he can’t help but feel that he looks as though he’s playing dress-up in daddy’s clothes.

The way Moneypenny looks at him when he tells her he needs her to watch his cats for a few days doesn’t help much.

“Where is he really?” Moneypenny asks.

Q doesn’t debate with himself for long. He’s tired, afraid, and above all, alone. “Switzerland,” Q whispers.

Moneypenny takes a breath. “I’m going with you,” she says.

Q shakes his head so fast his brain goes light and his vision fuzzy. “No,” he says. “He didn’t—”

“I don’t care,” Moneypenny responds. “He called me—”

“For the sake of all that is good and holy  _ do not talk about such things outside _ ,” M snaps, standing in his open office door. Q and Moneypenny each jump to attention. “Inside, now.”

Q follows Moneypenny past M and into the office. He sinks into one of the guest chairs—soft brushed leather, the kind that sends thrills up your fingertips.

“Switzerland,” M says. Q nods, miserable. “He contacted you?” Q nods again, as does Moneypenny. “Good. Miss Moneypenny, sit down.”

* * *

The plan M concocts is less elaborate than Q expects. He’ll be given a leave of vacation and a stay at the resort of his choice in Switzerland, “for his health.” Moneypenny will remain behind and attend meetings in Q’s place as a friend and colleague. M will hold off 9 Eyes as long as he can.

“When you come back,” M orders, “make sure you know what he’s doing hunting a dead man and  _ why _ . Bring him back if you can, threaten him with me if you can’t.”

“I will, sir.”

“And Q?” M’s tone is pleading. “Be careful.”

* * *

“May I?”

They’re standing on the tarmac before an MI6 jet, just Moneypenny and Q. The pilot’s already inside. So as not to draw suspicion, Q’s not being assigned any agents for protection. This is meant to look like a holiday, never mind what it actually is.

“What?” Q asks.

Moneypenny spreads her arms. “Hug?” she asks. “I know you’re not big on physical contact, but I figured, for the road…?”

Q opens his arms awkwardly, unsure. “Sure,” he says.

“Really? I don’t want to upset you.”

Q swallows. “Really. Come on.”

Moneypenny surges forward, clutching Q tight into her arms. He can feel the strong grip of her fingers in the back of his suit jacket and the heat of her arms against his ribs and the rise and fall of her breath in the crook of his neck. Q clutches back.  _ Not alone not alone not alone not alone _ —

Moneypenny releases Q before it becomes too much. Q’s glasses are askew, but he’s beaming.

“Good luck,” Moneypenny says. “Come back in one piece, with or without that old bag of bones. Anna and Aubergine will be waiting for you.”

* * *

Maybe, Q thinks when the jet’s in the air, it’s not romance he needs so much as friendship.

_ Maybe _ , the little voice at the back of his head replies,  _ but then why do those touches feel so different? _

They do, too; Q has to admit it. Moneypenny’s touches feel like the soft leather of M’s armchairs, the leaves on a geranium, a smooth expanse of steel. Bond’s—what Q remembers of them—are the white-blue-hot of a fire, splintered wood, the kind of newsprint that leaves ink smudges on your fingertips. It’s the best Q can do to describe either of them, though the sensation of Bond is a trickier thing to name. He doesn’t have good words because there  _ aren’t _ any.

He does have a name for the sort of touch at the nightclub he went to. They’d bumped into him as though it meant nothing at all. It was different than either Bond or Moneypenny, something that felt like  _ violation _ and  _ screaming _ .

Moneypenny doesn’t feel like that. She’s comfort, friendship, the first caress of cool water on a blisteringly hot day. Bond’s lightning in a bottle, a burning building, a cup of tea.

_ You’re in too deep _ , the voice at the back of Q’s head tells him, jubilant and cruel.

Q makes himself as small as he can in his seat and tries not to think at all.

* * *

The higher Q goes, the colder it gets. It makes logical sense, and it’s scientifically sound, but  _ Christ, _ Q’s shaking and he can’t get warm. He’s got his thickest sweater and his coziest jacket, not to mention his best woolen socks (Q’s feet are never warm no matter what he does, but he tries anyway), but he’s freezing.

By the time he reaches the health resort that Bond’s tracker has been stuck on for the better part of an hour, he’s nearly shaking. He doesn’t like a single thing about this trip.

Seeing Bond at the bar—or, what passes for a bar in a resort like this where there’s no alcohol—makes it worth it. Ordering Bond some sort of disgusting-sounding smoothie with digestive enzymes that sounds as though it’s been designed for geriatric visitors makes it all the better.

Bond’s eyes are tight, though, and it puts Q on edge.

“If you’ve come for the car, I’ve parked it at the bottom of the Tiber,” Bond says. The edge in his voice matches his eyes. Things aren’t going well, Q supposes. With Bond, they rarely do.

_ All the more reason why this is a bad idea _ , Q’s little voice tells him.

“Not to worry, 007,” Q says, “it was only a 3,000,000 pound prototype. I came because you asked.”

Bond swallows. “I told you to find me.”

“Quite,” Q says. He watches Bond for a long moment. “Something wrong?”

“You tell me,” Bond mutters.

“If you ask me, everything’s terrible,” Q says, “what with Denbigh’s people crawling all over us and the fact that M’ll want my balls for Christmas if I don’t bring back a lead on you.”

“Q,” Bond warns.

Q can’t look Bond in the eye if he’s going to get this out. “You’re looking for a Franz Oberhauser, but he’s dead. Dead and buried, and unless you come back with me now, or at least give me something to tell M, my career and Moneypenny’s will go the same way. Do you understand? All hell’s breaking loose and—”

“I saw him.”

“You saw him.” Bond doesn’t answer. “We’ve been through the records. He died in an avalanche with his father twenty years ago.”

“Yes, I know that,” Bond says, voice tight, “but I saw him. He’s not someone I’ll ever forget.”

Q sighs. “So you have a lead I can take back?”

“I have a name,” Bond replies. “L’Américain.”

Q wants to laugh. “That narrows it down,” he says. “Look, I’m sorry, 007, but time’s up. My whole career is on the line here. Either you come back in and do this properly or I go back to M. I can guarantee you won’t like his solution.”

“Do one more thing for me,” Bond pleads. “One more thing, and then you’re out.”

Q takes a deep breath. “I’m assuming that’s why you called me?”

Bond nods. “Hold out your hand.”

“Excuse me?” Q asks, eyes widening. Bond can’t be serious. He wants to hold hands in the Alps? Romantic, hardly what Q expected, but damn it all if he isn’t stretching out his hand, waiting, eyes wild.

“Palm up,” Bond instructs. Q flips his hand. Bond takes something out of his jacket pocket and carefully drops it into the center of Q’s outstretched palm. It’s warm from being so close to Bond’s chest. Q lifts it to his face to get a better look at it.

“If this is a marriage proposal...” Q warns, only half joking.

Bond smiles. “I need you to find out whatever you can from this.”

Q stares at the ring. Upon further inspection, the band, which he’d thought to be solid silver, has what appears to be an inset of an octopus. “I really, really hate you right now.” He doesn’t, but he wants to.

Bond smiles. “Thank you, Q.” His eyes dart to the space over Q’s right shoulder, and Q can see the exact instant in which Bond switches from “colleague” to “assassin.” “Where are you staying?”

“The Pevsner, room twelve. One hour?”

“One hour,” Bond confirms.

“Take care.”

* * *

Q’s nearly worn a hole in the floor from pacing when Bond arrives with one Dr. Madeleine Swann.

“Dr. Swann, Q,” Bond says, “Q, Dr. Swann.”

“Hello,” she greets. She offers him her hand to shake, and Q turns his back on it. He’d thought—he hadn’t thought at all, that’s the problem.

_ Yes, you did _ , the little voice in the back of his mind tells him, vicious as always.  _ You thought you could recreate that moment—you and Bond. _

“Enchanted,” Q replies, voice flat. “Bond, we need to talk. Alone.”

“She knows,” Bond says.

“But—”

“She knows.” Q purses his lips and looks away. “What have you got?”

“It appears I owe you an apology,” Q says without making further eye contact. He walks to the desk where his laptop and the ring sit. “The ring is a key.”

“A key?” Bond asks. He leans over to get a better look, and Dr. Swann leans with him. Q wiggles to get out of the way of both of them.

“Dr. Swann, please,” Q says.

“Sorry,” Dr. Swann apologizes. She leans away. Bond looks between the two of them, and Q wills himself not to look back. This isn’t about him, Q just needs space. That’s it. That’s all either of them will or need to see.

“There’s a chip inside the ring,” Q explains. “Selenium and zirconium, an odd mix. It looks like it’s designed to act as a keycard. I’d need to open it up to learn more, but I would guess that they’re personalized.”

“Can you find out what it accesses?”

“From London,” Q offers. “But there’s something else. The symbol on the front.”

“I ran it through every database I could find,” Bond interrupts. “There’s nothing.”

Q glares at him through his glasses. “I’ll take that in the spirit in which it was intended and ignore the insult to my research prowess.” Bond bows his head. “Now, look here. This is footage from South Africa, where an enormous explosion just rocked Johannesburg. Look there.” Q zooms in on a bit of the footage; there’s a woman with a ring on her index finger watching a building burn.

“That’s the symbol,” Bond mutters. “Who are they?”

“Spectre.” Q’s head swings up to look at Dr. Swann, as does Bond’s. “Its name is Spectre.”

Q turns to Bond. “How does she know that?”

“Because my father was part of it,” Dr. Swann bites back.

“Q, I need you to go back to London,” Bond says. His hands rest on the desk just in front of Q’s, a careful few centimeters apart. “Help M iron this out—and keep tracking me. I might need you, too, if you’re still willing to help.”

Q wants to say no. He wants to take what few shreds of pride he still has and tell Bond that the deal was to analyze the ring and leave, nothing more, and nothing less.

“I will,” Q manages. “Just try not to die.”

Bond smiles. It’s all Q can see.

* * *

In another whirlwind series of days, Q determines that the ring is crucial to the access of all Spectre facilities, the wreckage of Vauxhall is blown to bits, Bond nearly dies (at least twice that Q knows of), Q helps M take down Denbigh, Spectre goes down with him, and Bond disappears.

Sitting in his labs, Q tries not to be disappointed. Of course Bond would leave. It’s clear to him, as clear as it was in Switzerland, that Bond loved—loves—Dr. Swann. They’re a right match, and Bond is old. He brought them Oberhauser, lately known as Blofeld, the head of Spectre. There’s nothing left to be done.

Q opens the bottle of champagne Bond left him once upon a time and drinks it by himself.

* * *

A week later Q finds a message on his mobile from an unlisted number. He considers not checking the message, but curiosity wins the day.

_ You’re never home anymore, are you? _

Q goes cold.

_ Who is this? _ He sends back.

_ Someone who owes you 3M. _

Q closes his eyes.  _ Bond _ .

_ Q. _

_You owe me a lot more than 3M, all told._ _I thought you left._

_ I did _ , Bond sends.  _ But you’re not home. _

_ Of course not _ , Q sends back.  _ Don’t tell me you broke in. _

_ Where are your cats? _

_ With me. _

For a long moment, Q doesn’t receive a message. He’s ready to call it a fluke—sheer curiosity on Bond’s part, nothing more—until he receives another message.

_ I’ll be over in a few minutes. _

_ Please don’t. _

Q doesn’t receive a response.

* * *

A few minutes turns out to be precisely thirty-seven and a quarter, not that Q was counting. Bond’s somehow acquired the override to his lab. No doubt he’s managed to turn off the cameras, too, assuming he knows about them. Q’s the only one with the feeds, though, so perhaps not.

“Q,” Bond greets. He’s dressed down, Q notices—still sharp, but casual. He belongs in a Gorsuch catalogue, not in Q’s dingy excuse for a bolthole.

“Bond,” Q says. “I didn’t think you’d be in London.”

“I didn’t think  _ you _ were,” Bond says, approaching. “You never go home.”

“Not much reason to,” Q admits. “Why are you here?”

Bond tilts his head. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Q turns his back on Bond to keep his flustered response from showing. “Of course not,” he says. “If you want me to put a good word in with M—”

“Q,” Bond says. “Q, look at me.”

“No.”

“I don’t want to touch you without your permission,” Bond says, “but please.”

It’s the  _ please _ that does it. Q turns. Bond looks so open, so lost.

“Where’s Dr. Swann?” Q asks. He doesn’t mean it to be unkind, he doesn’t.

“Switzerland,” Bond says. “Back where she belongs. It’s where she wanted to stay.”

“And you?”

“Didn’t.”

Q nods once, uncomprehending. “Well,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll find another one.”

“Q,” Bond says. It seems to be the most common word out of his mouth, and Q doesn’t know what to make of it. “Come out to dinner with me.”

“Come again?” Q asks.

Bond looks serious. “Come out to dinner with me.”

Q takes a step back, and Bond doesn’t match him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Bond holds out his hand. “How can you know?” he asks.

Q shakes his head. “This won’t end well. What you want and what I want are completely different.”

“You have no way of knowing that.”

“I know  _ you _ ,” Q argues. “I know you, and you…”

“I what?” Bond asks. Q can’t answer that. “Let me take you out to dinner,” he says, “and we can talk about it.”

“You’re not going to like what I have to say,” Q says.

“I doubt that.” Bond’s hand is still hanging. Q reaches for it.

Bond’s hands are soft, a sharp contrast to his own callouses. Q stops breathing for a moment at the feel of skin-on-skin, the shuddering slide as his thumb makes its way across Bond’s palm.

Bond interlaces their fingers together, and Q’s sure he’s red to match the flag.

“I don’t usually touch people,” Q blurts, all at once.

Bond’s hand doesn’t leave his. “I know,” he murmurs. “I noticed.”

“I don’t notice things like you do,” Q rambles, “and I’m not a good conversationalist, and—”

“Q,” Bond says, punctuating the statement with a squeeze to Q’s hands. “It’s all right,” he says. “It’s just me.”

“It’s  _ because _ it’s you,” Q admits.

Bond nods. “May I?” he asks. His other arm has formed an arc. Slowly, slowly, Q leans into the embrace. Bond’s warm. Q thinks he might melt into him, he’s burning, burning—and the smell,  _ Christ _ . 

“Smoke and roses,” Q murmurs.

“You  _ are _ observant,” Bond replies.

“I have a nose,” Q says. He doesn’t pull away from Bond—Bond, who’s rubbing his back now, who hasn’t let go of his hand. It’s too much and it’s  _ perfect _ .

“It’s a subtle scent.”

“About as subtle as a freight train.”

Bond laughs, and Q can hear the rumble in his chest.

“Why did you come back?” Q asks Bond’s neck. His glasses are getting in the way.

“This,” Bond replies. He tightens his grip on Q. “I couldn’t leave this behind.”

“This isn’t much to look at,” Q replies, “so don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” Bond says. He pulls back, ever so slightly, so Q can look at him. “I’m not.”

Q believes him.


End file.
